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The Way We Were: Remembering Diana
The Way We Were: Remembering Diana
The Way We Were: Remembering Diana
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The Way We Were: Remembering Diana

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Paul Burrell served Diana, Princess of Wales, as her faithful butler from 1987 until her death in 1997. He was much more than an employee: he was her right-hand man, confidant, and friend whom Diana herself described as "the only man she ever trusted." Featuring previously unseen interior photographs and remarkably intimate details, The Way We Were flings open the doors to Kensington Palace, leading readers deep inside the private world of Princess Diana—room by room, memory by memory. Marking the tenth anniversary of the princess’s death, Burrell has penned a faithful and poignant tribute to "the boss"—capturing as never before her vivacity and love of life, her style, her fashion, and her heart.

Some images that appeared in the print edition of this book are unavailable in the electronic edition due to rights reasons.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateOct 19, 2010
ISBN9780062046314
The Way We Were: Remembering Diana
Author

Paul Burrell

Paul is married to Maria, and the couple live in Cheshire. They have two sons, Alexander and Nicholas.

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Rating: 3.375 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Initially I was opposed to Burrell's first book "A Royal Duty" as I assumed he was yet another person trying to cash in on the life and death of Diana, Princess of Wales. However after reading it I was proven wrong; he provides a unique, personal account of his time spent with Diana and allows the readers the opportunity to understand what this remarkable woman was like in her private life. Burrell's second book- The Way We Were- is what I had initially assumed the first one to be. There really is no reason other than financial gain as to why he wrote this book. His previous one provided the reader everything they needed and wanted to know about Diana. The Way We Were is nothing more than a cash grab and it's unfortunate that Burrell didn't stick with just his first book because after I read this one, my respect for him dropped dramatically. I recommend to anyone who wants to learn more about Diana to pick up a copy of A Royal Duty as it will provide you with everything and more that you are looking for. This book is much less detailed, repetitive, and pointless. Don't waste your time or money on this one.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Tiene partes aburridas que me brinqué, pero en general es un libro ameno que deja ver la vida cotidiana de Diana y relata cosas no conocidas respecto de ella, aunque como es de esperarse, le falta objetividad.

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The Way We Were - Paul Burrell

Introduction

In July 2006 I found myself standing inside Kensington Palace, and Diana, Princess of Wales was there once more, with her warm smile and infectious giggle.

I was nothing but a visitor, one of thousands of tourists who pass through those ornate black and gold gates in London W8, and the boss was nothing but her own iconic image, looking down from every wall; her spirit and sense of fun captured perfectly by photographer Mario Testino.

It’s never easy returning to KP where I worked and lived as butler to the princess, but I had to see Mario’s unique tribute, which portrays her like no one ever has before: at her happiest, most relaxed, most radiant, most natural. For me, they show ‘Diana, the woman at home’ not ‘Diana, Princess of Wales on duty’. This was the princess I knew, and how I remember her; the princess Mario wanted the world to see, as if each person who viewed those photos was sitting on the sofa chatting to her. As he did. As I did, during ten years of service at her side.

In his mesmerizing photos, she wore no shoes, no jewellery and little makeup as she sprawled across a sofa, or sat on the floorboards, laughing.

Laughter, laughter, laughter — that’s what the day was all about, Paul. I had such fun! she said. It is a vivid memory for me because I was at KP in 1997 when the boss returned home from Mario’s studio and what had been her final photo shoot — for Vanity Fair. I’ve never felt so relaxed, she went on. She’d had such fun, and was soaring with the confidence Mario had instilled in her, which brought out the best in her for the photos.

I remember the day when, at last, a Kodak box of 8 × 10" prints arrived at the front door. The princess couldn’t wait to see them, and I helped her spread more than fifty images across the sitting-room carpet. Then we knelt to scan each shot.

This is you! He’s got you! I told her.

Do you think so? she said, with the sharp intake of breath that punctuated her conversations. "Is that really me?" She giggled, embarrassed to have invited a compliment.

Typically, she allowed me to choose my favourites and ensured I received my own Mario Testino collection of the shots she had discarded. The exhibition, almost ten years later, was important because it illustrated the princess as the world deserved to see her; a side of her that few were privileged to know. In that respect, Mario did her millons of fans, and her memory, a true service.

An appropriate and fitting tribute to Diana, Princess of Wales was long overdue, something more significant than Hyde Park’s water memorial, which certainly doesn’t do justice to her memory. That’s why it is a shame that Mario’s exhibition isn’t permanent because it is everything that a tribute should be.

Even though I’d seen every image before during my exclusive preview at KP, I wasn’t prepared for their impact when I entered the exhibition. It was their sheer size, larger than life, that struck me. The princess dominated the place.

Photographs and words capture memories, and I am writing this commemorative book to give you an insight into the privileged life I shared with the princess, in memory and celebration of her. I have included my own photographs of Apartments 8 and 9, to form a visual tribute that the Royal Family accorded to the late Queen Mother and Princess Margaret, but not the princess.

I took photographs of each room — and of her jewellry — in September 1997, and I’m sharing them with you, opening the door as Butler to show how this iconic royal once lived. I hope my words and pictures evoke powerful memories. I’m no Mario Testino but he and I share the same aim: to remember a unique and remarkable woman — especially as the long overdue and much delayed British inquest into her death in Paris, on 31 August 1997, is now in view. Over the past two years, I have assisted Scotland Yard officers, investigating on behalf of the coroner, as much as I can. I have spent many hours with them and provided statements and suggestions to aid them in their pursuit of the truth as to what really happened. It has been a thorough investigation, there is a fear that, in the process, Diana, Princess of Wales, might be remembered for all the wrong reasons, her character so scrutinized that it is in danger of being distorted; that her warmth, spirit, vivacity and good work will be lost and the concerns she harboured for her safety are misrepresented.

So, I have written this book to keep at the forefront of our minds a true memory of the boss. I hope it shines through these pages, and continues to shine after the inquest process, whatever is said, whatever is alleged, whatever is decided. When it is over, we will be approaching the tenth anniversary of her death — a true time for remembrance and reflection.

I am aware that my intention in writing this book may be misrepresented and misjudged by the media and system that attacked me for my first book, A Royal Duty, which appeared in 2003. It was portrayed as a betrayal but, as more than 93,000 letters to me have confirmed, it was a tribute, as I intend this book to be. I hope people will read The Way We Were and judge it on its tone and content, not on its media portrayal. I have always said that I will stand for ever in the princess’s corner and shout on her behalf, and there seems no better time to remember her than now — as vividly as we knew her before that terrible autumn of 1997.

My memories don’t mellow with time. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the lilies in the sitting room, hear the Victorian gas lamps hissing in the courtyard at KP or the grandfather clock ticking on the stairs. I can still see the princess in the drawing room, playing Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2, I can still see her sitting in a window seat on a summer’s day, the sun on her face, eyes closed, tucking her hair behind an ear.

As her butler, I invite you to step inside a unique world. This book commemorates the life of the ‘People’s Princess’. Your princess. My boss.

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PAUL BURRELL

BACK HOME

The gold Yale key turned in the lock, and my stomach lurched as the back door of Kensington Palace opened. I stepped inside and walked forward, as the heavy black door slammed behind me, sending an echo throughout the emptiness that lay ahead. It was as dark and gloomy as ever in that part of the palace so I flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. The bulb must have blown, I thought.

Then I looked up to the ceiling and saw that the entire light fixture had been ripped out, leaving only dangling wires. I walked on, my footsteps echoing, to what had been the engine room of the ‘home’ I called KP, where tradesmen, staff and deliverymen had once busied themselves. I was in the middle of the lobby, once filled with the buzz of the refrigerator, the whirr of the ice-making machine, the swish of the dishwasher, the chatter of people coming and going. Now there was a void. The mail pigeon-holes were empty; black garbage bags, empty drawers and chairs lay about, discarded. KP looked as if it had been ransacked by thieves. Apartments 8 and 9 had been reduced to a shell, there wasn’t a single hook for my memories.

It was 2002, and I had gone back to the apartments of Diana, Princess of Wales for the first time since I had left them in July 1998 when, even then, they were being emptied. Fine furniture was transferred to the Royal Collection. Jewellery was returned to Buckingham Palace. As the family was entitled to do, Princes William and Harry and the Spencer family had taken some items, and the Crown Estates had reclaimed the property. On the day I moved out, 24 July 1998, the apartments were being stripped. It was too painful for me to witness. I wanted to leave with a mental picture of what had been, dismissing the reality of what was taking place.

In the ensuing four years I steered clear of the palace. I never imagined I’d ever see the day when I’d need to go back. I didn’t want to go back. But it became necessary to return ‘home’ when Scotland Yard and the CPS charged me with theft from the boss’s estate — the system’s response to my spontaneous protection of her legacy. In preparation for my Old Bailey trial, which ended in acquittal in 2002, I had to walk my legal team through the palace to build up a picture of what life, and my role, had been like.

That day, accompanied by my barrister Lord Carlile, QC, and solicitor Andrew Shaw, I steeled myself for what I knew I would see — the dismantling of the princess’s world had long been complete. But I was still unprepared for the devastating scene of erasure and decay that confronted me when I walked up the main staircase, then went from room to room. Each had been stripped with a disregard that said everything about how the princess had been treated in life.

Nothing had been respected. Workmen had moved in, ripping up carpets, tearing down the silk wall panels that had decorated the drawing room and sitting room, leaving the doors of fitted cupboards hanging off their hinges. Even plug sockets had been removed. There were horizontal gaps where the odd floorboard had been pulled up and left propped against a wall. Newspapers were scattered on the floor. A blue mattress was propped against one wall. Junk lay everywhere. And it was dirty. It seemed that the place hadn’t been cleaned in the four years since 1998. A layer of dust covered the once polished banisters, giant cobwebs were spun round grubby cornices, and the air was musty. A once pristine home was now as dark and unhealthy as Charles Dickens had depicted Satis House in Great Expectations.

Those with no reason to care about the princess’s world, and the devastation I saw, might have shrugged and said, Well, she’s dead. It’s time to move on. Who cares? But moving on shouldn’t mean forgetting.

I could have cried as I walked round those rooms. It was a stark illustration of how quickly some people had wanted to forget her, how eager some people were to remove every vestige of her.

It also represented a lost opportunity. A potential museum of memories had been wrecked.

After Princess Margaret’s death in 2002, the administration of her home, Apartment 1A, was transferred to the care of Historic Royal Palaces so that part of her living quarters could be viewed for educational and exhibition purposes. Today, although the place has been stripped of its furniture, the public has the chance to visualize Princess Margaret’s life, and study the photographs of her. Would it not have been possible to do the same with Apartments 8 and 9 five years earlier?

Also, when the Queen Mother died in 2002, the Prince of Wales ensured that there was a fitting tribute to his grandmother: he arranged for the World of Interiors magazine to photograph the inside of her home to show how she had lived; to capture her way of life, her tastes and style, for posterity. It was published in October 2003.

That is why I’ve decided to share with you my photographs, taken inside Apartments 8 and 9.

I took them, with my own camera, in the weeks after the princess’s death, for purely sentimental reasons — to preserve what had been a special place to me. They also catalogued the precise location of her possessions, which was useful to me in my role as guardian of her world.

Over the years, the photographs have been a comfort, and have helped me remember details and moments that might have blurred with time. Many people from around the world have written to me, or asked me face to face, what life was like with the boss, how she lived, and what her inner sanctum really looked like. Well, the photographs in this book provide the answer; you will enjoy a virtual tour of Apartments 8 and 9. They show the rooms as she left them.

Today, Apartment 9, which housed the princess’s bedroom, bathroom, dressing room, wardrobe rooms and part of the nursery, provides accommodation for members of the Queen’s household. But Apartment 8 — the main staircase, sitting room, drawing room, dining room, kitchen and my pantry – remains a shell. I hope my photographs recapture the spirit of this home and offer a vivid image of what life was like with the boss. Her private rooms deserve to be remembered for the vibrancy, drama, laughter, tears and magic of a life lived to the full. That is why, as butler to that residence, I’m opening the doors to show you around. This is the way we were …

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She called the walled garden her ‘little oasis’, her place of escape and solitude. There was only one key to the black door set in the surrounding brickwork and, as the resident of Apartments 8 and 9, the princess had exclusive access, shared with me and the gardener. It was the only set of four walls behind which she found complete relaxation and sanctuary, with the sky as a roof.

Almost a decade since her death, my memories of that garden, and life at KP, are as vivid as ever. If I close my eyes, my mind evokes those special years of duty between 1993 and 1997. Her garden was scented, with roses of all colours climbing half-way up the ten-foot-high walls. There was a flowering cherry, a pergola in one corner, a long, rectangular lawn with a wide border, a central oak in which squirrels nested, a potting shed and a dilapidated old greenhouse.

In summer, on blazing hot days, I knew the routine. I can see her now, in a pair of shorts and a vest, and wearing her Versace sunglasses, almost skipping out of the front door, with a paleblue wicker basket filled with correspondence, books, CDs, a Walkman, a low-factor Clarins suncream and her mobile phone. She never went anywhere without her phone.

Then she’d settle down with her hair tied back. When she was relaxing, in the garden, in the sitting room before bedtime or at breakfast, she scraped back her blonde hair with an elasticated cloth band. She had several, in black, blue and purple. If the world remembers the princess for her signature hairstyle, I remember her for that band! Sometimes, as she talked on the phone, that hairband would be wrapped round her fingers, and she’d toy with it, then put it back on her head.

I never joined the boss in the garden. It was her private time. When that black door swung shut, she was alone, as she wanted to be. Often, she returned to KP with a bunch of roses for a vase on her desk. She never stayed out there long, maybe an hour or two. She was too restless to keep still for longer than that. As much as she portrayed herself as a sun-worshipper, she was too impatient to lie immobile for long. The sun-bed, in half-hour bursts, was more her cup of tea.

If the garden was her sanctuary, Apartments 8 and 9 were the home that was filled with the laughter of the young princes William and Harry, but also the tears and sadness of the boss’s well-documented personal strife. The entrance was a set of black double doors, flanked by two giant wooden planters.

One day in early spring, I decided to fill them with rows of hyacinths, like the ones at Windsor Castle planted round the Queen’s private entrance, called the ‘dog door’, because Her Majesty used it when she walked her corgis. In my eleven years’ service as footman to the Queen — from 1976 to 1987 — the gardeners at Windsor planted row upon row of blue hyacinths, to flower around Easter time, and I was met by their heavenly scent each time I was on corgi-walking duty — up to eight times a day. Those dogs never tired of walks! I suppose I planted the hyacinths because I thought that the scent would be a lovely welcome for visitors to KP. Except one visitor didn’t agree. When Prince Charles saw what I had done, he chastised me. He told me it was far too early to plant hyacinths outside. It’s such a waste, Paul! he said.

And, of course, he was right. What the prince didn’t know about plants and gardening could have been written on the back of his mother’s head — on a British postage stamp. I had witnessed his skills in the garden many times during my service as butler to the Prince and Princess of Wales at Highgrove, from 1987 to 1993, so I knew he was talking sense, even if his manner was somewhat brusque. Not that I was going to give him the satisfaction of watching me dig the bulbs out. Instead, each night for the next month, I covered them up with an old bed-sheet to protect them from the frost. I did it my way — after all, it was the boss’s home, not his any more. She loved that scent, so maybe I’d got it right, after all.

From the front door of KP, visitors stepped out on to the gravel that surrounded an oval lawn, like a mini-roundabout, with a central flower-bed, overlooked by the first-floor dining-room windows. The princess always drove her BMW in nose first. As soon as she was inside the house, I would nip out with the car keys and turn it round so that it was ready to be driven out the next time she needed it.

About two hundred yards ahead of the door there was a block called the Upper Stables. Staff quarters filled the first floor and Princess Margaret’s garage was underneath. To the left, a group of cottages was used by senior members of the Royal Household: Kent Cottage, Nottingham Cottage and Wren Cottage. To the right, there was a dead end: a towering brick wall with a black door set in it, which led to the State Apartments and the Orangery. The princess used that gate to nip out into Kensington Palace Gardens for a walk, or to go Rollerblading at around 8 a.m. when few people were around. To reach it, she had to pass the door to Prince and Princess Michael of Kent’s apartments. I occasionally went in for chats with the Portuguese housekeeper, Julia — it was like walking into a full-size doll’s house, immaculate and chintzy. Whereas my first impression on walking into Apartments 8 and 9 was of simple elegance: the walls down the narrow entrance corridor, with its barrelled ceiling, were painted primrose yellow and led to an archway into the vestibule where there was a cloakroom. The boss always stopped there on her way out. She would thrust her handbag into my hand and say: Wait there — but hum or sing loudly! Instead, I waited discreetly in the hallway.

Across the vestibule, a doorway opened on to the main staircase, which climbed up then turned at a right angle to the first-floor landing and the boss’s private rooms. From that same doorway, six steps dropped down to the right and the butler’s pantry. It was there that I often waited for the princess to arrive home, waited for the frosted-glass panes to rattle in the door, those quick, light footsteps on the carpet, as she bounded up the stairs, rushing in like a whirlwind of energy. Moments later the floorboards directly above me would creak, indicating that she was moving between her dressing room, bedroom and sitting room. Those old floorboards often told me her whereabouts and her mood: slow, unhurried movement meant she was relaxed; frantic pacing meant she was in a rush or had taken a phone call that had upset her.

The staircase was wide with a classical white balustrade topped with a varnished, bevelled-edged banister. White garland mouldings fell down the walls from an intricate cornice, and a grandfather clock stood on one of

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